


we wait for the wave to wash it away

by ackermom



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dry Humping, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28464525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: “I don’t want to talk about this,” he breathes. The first thing he can think to say: defense, to a man prone on his back.
Relationships: Reiner Braun/Porco Galliard
Comments: 10
Kudos: 142





	we wait for the wave to wash it away

**Author's Note:**

> don't say [nothing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kvHiflzabHg)  
> just be  
> just be  
> just be

The spit sticks to his lips when Reiner pulls away, and the smell— the cigarette smoke, the grey, a kindling between their mouths. Porco can taste it where it lingers on his tongue and sinks into the splits of his cracked lips, as Reiner sits back, slow, stiff, with the cigarette alight between his fingers, the flame they begrudgingly share on cold seas night when there is nothing else to keep them warm. 

He says nothing, just sits back and smokes. He sits with his head bent, his eyes closed, and takes another drag. He doesn't apologize for leaning over in the middle of a nothing silence and kissing Porco— for putting their lips together, holding them close, making Porco catch his breath. He doesn't even look at him, just stares at the ground, the floor of their tent and the sand in their socks, lets the last of the smoke escape from between his lips in a cool, grey breath. He nearly lets the cigarette fall from his hand; his eyes flutter shut. The high. Ashes in the sand, on the sea breeze.

Porco shuts his mouth. He purses his lips together, salt air at the back of his throat, lips bruised. He lets his vision wave in the dim evening light, a pale sunset somewhere over the levee. The smoke and air clouding his eyes, the pink shadows on the canvas tent as it stirs in the wind. He tries to let it go, but it lingers on his tongue, burning. 

"Don't fucking drop it," he mutters finally, leaning forward. "We've only got a few left."

The cot creaks beneath his weight; dips between their thighs. He slips the cigarette from Reiner's fingers without touching his skin, and he takes a drag, long, until he's full of smoke, lets his eyes fall shut and sucks it in, the grey ashen cancer. The buzz. The something, anything, as long as it's not here. 

Reiner mutters ("sorry," on his breath), doesn't look up from where he stares at the ground, taciturn, listless, drifting through the grains of sand. He just sits on the edge of the cot and says nothing else. His jacket hangs loose on his shoulders; the curve of his bare arms, exposed, the slice of his collarbones, skin sunburned and healed, scorched and faded to tan, as a chill wind rattles the thin canvas tent. It's cold on the desert shore, in the night, when the sun sinks beneath the blue horizon and there's only blackness til it rises again. But he doesn't care. He sits, staring at the sand in his socks. Porco doesn't think he even feels it. 

He takes the cigarette back when Porco passes it to him, blowing a breath of smoke into his face. He hardly winces.

But their fingers touch. Skin, burning. On fire, the paper cigarette burning, and smoke rising in their tent, in Porco's lungs, on his lips, the taste of something alive, something real that won't fade away like a desert mirage. Something besides sand and wind and war, something he can hold onto. Something that will hold him too.

"C'mere," Porco mutters. 

He sinks in when he leans forward— one knee dipping into the cot, one leg over the side, his toes in the sand, he moves. He is on top of Reiner when their lips meet again, the cigarette burning away the space between them. He tastes like ashes. Beneath that, blood. Porco kisses him, brow furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, his hands clutching bruises into Reiner’s face as he digs into his skin; one hand curling at the ends of his hair, the nape of his neck, that spot there, and the other with the cigarette, dripping, the tinders falling onto Reiner’s lap, scorching a hole in his khakis that he doesn’t even notice as he pants into Porco’s mouth, breathes him, the smoke from his lungs and the taste of himself on Porco’s lips.

He kisses Reiner, harder, with teeth, with fingernails. He gasps against Reiner, the blood rushing through his veins, his breaths growing tighter, faster. Under him, Reiner is warm, eyes fluttering shut; a slow hand on the small of Porco’s back, fingers up under his jacket to brush over his bare skin. Catching his breath when Porco pushes him onto his back, when Porco looms over him, his knees on either side of Reiner, his chest heaving as the silence settles over the room and their eyes meet. Two warriors, watching each other for the next move, the moment.

Porco breathes into the cold: the last of the smoke, grey from his lips. Sprawled on his back, stomach up, defenseless, Reiner stares back; the cigarette flames out in his hand, hanging over the edge of the cot. Porco presses his lips together, something quiet rising in his chest. He tastes Reiner on his tongue. Beneath the smoke, the blood, he tastes Reiner. And he wants more of it.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he breathes. The first thing he can think to say: defense, to a man prone on his back.

Reiner’s hair, mussed. Porco’s fingerprints on his skin.

“Okay,” he breathes back. He sticks the tinder end of the cigarette to one of his fingers. It sizzles out and he tosses it into the sand, as the burn heals. “But, are we—?”

“Yeah,” Porco murmurs. “We are.”

Fire, when he bends in half to kiss Reiner again. When their lips meet as night settles over the sea, their bodies pressed together, skin burning under their clothes, under the cold wind that whips along the tent walls. Fire when Reiner’s hand touches, tenderly, at the sliver of his skin that shows when his shirt rides up.

Porco sucks in a breath, ragged, eyes screwed shut. His hair falls out of place as they grind. He kisses Reiner, force on his lips, red and purple, bruising along his jaw as they move, their bodies aching with the cot beneath them. He draws his lips down Reiner’s skin, sucking on him, drawing blood to the surface until he hears Reiner gasp, that smoky breath in his ear, a shiver running down Porco’s back. Haphazardly they move, a jagged rhythm. Porco thrusts against him; his cock straining in his pants, he keeps his eyes closed, grabs Reiners hands and sets them on his waist, the skin beneath his shirt, as he fumbles, one hand, to toss Reiner’s jacket aside and tear his shirt up far enough to tweak his nipples, pink and tender under Porco’s cold fingers in the night.

Reiner moans. His breath warm on Porco’s ear. His voice soft, but just loud enough, and Porco hisses, fire, the heat building, their rhythm off-course, the wind outside howling. He licks down Reiner’s collarbone. He bites one, just to see. Reiner’s hand clutches at his back.

Beneath them, the cot creaks, aches. Both of them, tight in their pants, pushing against each other, too tired to undress, too desperate, fucking with their breaths in each other’s ears. Porco’s fingers, his thumb circling Reiner’s nipple, teasing him, and his lips, drawing over his neck and shoulder, groaning into his skin, gasping as friction builds. The pads of Reiner’s fingers press into the skin of his back. Clutch at him, then fingernails, as his eyes squeeze shut and he comes, gasping into Porco’s ears, clenching so tightly he draws blood and steam.

Then Porco— desperate, one hand grabbing Reiner by the back of his knee to hoist his leg up, to let Porco fuck him through his clothes, push into him, jerk off on him, and Porco moans, gasps, head falling over, hair sweaty, out of place, dropping over Reiner’s chest as he comes and shudders. The cold comes again, so quickly, like a chill setting over him, and he shivers, hoisting himself up onto his hand and knees. He won’t open his eyes. He won’t look.

The cigarette lies cold in the sand. Burned halfway to the end, a grey shriveled stub. The cot whines when Porco shifts upright, swings his legs over the edge and sits with his feet in the sand, sweat running down his forehead. He toes at the cigarette. What a waste.

Cold fingers. Reiner’s hand on his back, hesitant and tender. The ghost of a touch, but there, and Porco holds his breath when he feels it.

“Sorry,” is all Reiner says.

He hardly feels when Reiner's hand pulls away. He doesn't know it's gone until the cot creaks again, and he glances over his shoulder: Reiner, curled up, head turned away. But his touch lingers on Porco's skin, soft, like the slightest breeze, something warm, something real. 


End file.
